Archive of Our Own

For the next two days, Andrea Sachs disappeared carefully. It wasn’t dramatic or cruel, but she did it gradually enough that Emily noticed anyway. 

At first the silence barely registered beneath the chaos of preparing Miranda Priestly for AltaRomaAltaModa. Because genuinely, the office had become uninhabitable. Every surface inside Runway disappeared beneath garment bags, call sheets, revised itineraries, and panicked assistants moving at speeds previously understood only by military operations and hunted animals. Phones rang constantly. Designers called from Milan in emotional distress. One courier physically cried on Wednesday afternoon after misplacing a pair of Valentino samples somewhere between SoHo and Midtown.

Emily herself had not sat down properly in nearly thirty-six hours. Which meant, technically, she did not have time to think about Andrea Sachs.

Unfortunately, the human brain was a deeply treacherous organ. Because despite the exhaustion and stress and escalating international fashion emergencies, Emily still noticed things automatically. The messages she left on read. The absence of new ones afterward. The way her phone remained stubbornly silent now during moments where, recently, Andrea had somehow begun existing naturally inside the shape of her day.

Small things. Stupid things.

A text complaining about newsroom coffee. A photograph of some aggressively ugly tie spotted on the subway. Andrea asking if Emily had eaten lunch yet in the exact tone of someone fully aware she hadn’t.

Gone.

Though at first, they weren’t completely gone. 

The morning after the restaurant, Andrea still texted:

Hope today’s less murderous.

Emily had stared at the message for almost a full minute before locking her phone without answering.

Then later:

Georgia survive yet?

Emily hadn’t replied to that either. Partly because she’d been busy. Mostly because she still felt bruised everywhere emotionally.

Then came:

You alive?

That one arrived sometime in the evening while Emily stood knee-deep in garment racks beside Serena trying to prevent Miranda from declaring war on an entire accessories department.

Emily saw the message flash briefly across her screen. And for one dangerous second, warmth bloomed instinctively inside her chest anyway. Then immediately afterward came the memory of sunflowers across a restaurant table. Of Andrea laughing. Of Andrea leaning close toward him.

Emily locked the phone again.

After that, the messages stopped. And horrifyingly, that hurt worst of all. Because now there was nothing to ignore anymore.

No warm interruptions appearing unexpectedly throughout her day. No ridiculous observations. No “eat something” texts arriving late at night like Andrea had quietly appointed herself guardian of Emily’s basic survival instincts.

Only silence.

Which Emily told herself was better. More dignified. Entirely deserved, probably. And yet sometime late at night, while reorganizing seating charts in Miranda’s office long after everyone else had gone home, Emily still found herself checking her phone anyway.

Nothing.

Something small and miserable curled tighter beneath her ribs. Pathetic.

“She’s busy,” Emily muttered aloud to herself while typing another revised schedule into existence. “We’re both busy.”

Which was true. Andrea worked constantly. Emily was preparing for Rome. Life continued.

And if Andrea Sachs no longer particularly felt like speaking to her, well. Emily had survived worse things than that. Hadn’t she?

-

Meanwhile, across Manhattan, Andrea Sachs was also trying very hard to be normal about everything.

Which unfortunately became difficult after approximately forty-eight consecutive hours of Emily Charlton responding to messages like a Victorian governess being held hostage.

Yes.

Fine.

Busy.

Thanks.

And then eventually there was nothing.

At first Andy genuinely assumed work had simply swallowed Emily alive. Which, honestly, happened often enough to qualify as routine. AltaRoma preparations sounded terrifying even under ordinary circumstances. Combined with Miranda Priestly, international travel coordination, and Georgia apparently continuing her career-long commitment to psychological warfare, Andy mostly figured Emily was exhausted.

So Andy tried being understanding. Tried giving space. Tried not texting again immediately after receiving responses with all the emotional warmth of tax audits.

But gradually, unease settled in anyway. Because something felt off. Emily still sounded sharp, yes. Still sarcastic. Still herself, technically.

But distant too. She sounded careful.  Like someone speaking through a slightly closed door.

Andy noticed it most Wednesday night while standing alone in her apartment microwaving leftover pasta at nearly midnight after finally giving up on another article draft.

She’d typed:

Still alive?

Then stared at the screen afterward with growing uncertainty. Was it too much? Maybe Emily genuinely needed space. Maybe Andy had accidentally become distracting. Overwhelming. Too present.

The thought made something sink unpleasantly inside her chest. Because the truth was, lately Emily had quietly become threaded through her days in ways Andy hadn’t fully realized until now.

Texting Emily when something ridiculous happened. Mentally saving observations for later because Emily would laugh at them. Looking for her name automatically whenever her phone buzzed.

Absence changed the shape of things.

And after the unanswered message Thursday night, Andy finally stopped reaching out too. Not because she voluntarily wanted to. Mostly because caring about someone meant recognizing when they might not want you crowding them constantly, even if the silence felt terrible.

-

By Friday morning, Manhattan had frozen solid again. Weak winter sunlight spilled pale and colorless across Emily’s apartment while radiators hissed softly through the cold.

Emily stood beside the kitchen island fastening diamond studs into place with one hand while mentally reviewing Miranda’s Rome schedule for perhaps the nine hundredth time.

Flight confirmations. Hotel reservations. Final fittings. Driver arrangements. Nigel’s garment trunks. Miranda’s revised dinner attendance list after she’d abruptly decided Wednesday evening that she no longer respected Dolce & Gabbana aesthetically this month.

Emily’s suitcase waited near the front door already packed with ruthless efficiency. Black cashmere. Dark silk blouses. Tailored trousers. Designer skirts.  Emergency sewing kit. Three backup phone batteries because Italy, frankly, could not be trusted infrastructurally.

The apartment remained quiet except for distant traffic far below the windows.

And despite herself, Emily’s gaze drifted toward the kitchen counter. The sunflowers. Still alive. Still absurdly bright against the cool marble and steel of her apartment.

For several long seconds she simply stared at them motionlessly. The bouquet had opened wider over the past few days, golden petals stretching lazily outward beneath soft morning light while eucalyptus leaves spilled elegantly over the rim of the vase. Andrea flowers.

Emily’s chest tightened instantly. God. She should throw them away. Normal people probably would have by now.

Instead Emily found herself changing the water every evening like some emotionally compromised widow tending memorial roses in a period drama. Pathetic.

And yet the thought of leaving them here alone while she disappeared to Rome for several days made something inside her chest ache unexpectedly. Because they would die.

The realization arrived softly but with startling force.

No one would refill the water. No one would move them toward sunlight. By the time Emily returned, the petals would probably already be curling inward brown at the edges.

Emily swallowed once. Absolutely ridiculous thing to care about.

Yet still—“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she muttered quietly to herself.

Five minutes later, Emily Charlton found herself standing in the middle of her immaculate kitchen wearing a camel wool coat and holding an enormous glass vase full of sunflowers like a woman midway through a psychological event.

The vase was heavier than expected. Water sloshed dangerously near the rim as Emily adjusted her grip with visible irritation. “This,” she informed the flowers coldly while reaching for her suitcase handle simultaneously, “is not becoming a habit.”

The flowers offered no opinion. And somehow that made it worse.

-

The lobby doorman blinked exactly once when Emily crossed the marble floors carrying luxury luggage in one hand and a giant sunflower arrangement in the other.

To his credit, he recovered quickly. “Good morning, Miss Charlton.”

Emily shifted the vase carefully against her hip. “Don’t.”

“…I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

A pause.

“…Safe travels to Rome.”

Emily narrowed her eyes suspiciously before continuing toward the waiting car outside.

The driver opened the trunk. Then visibly hesitated at the flowers.

Emily looked at him tiredly. “If you say a single word about this, I’ll make sure you never emotionally recover.”

“…Yes, ma’am.”

Carefully, absurdly, Emily climbed into the backseat of the town car cradling the vase protectively in both arms while Manhattan blurred cold and gray outside the windows.

And somewhere deep beneath the exhaustion and heartbreak and humiliation still lingering bruised inside her chest, one awful tender truth remained stubbornly alive anyway.

She still couldn’t bear the thought of Andrea’s flowers dying.

-

By seven-fifteen that morning, Emily Charlton had accepted two undeniable truths.

Firstly: Rome was happening whether she emotionally survived it or not. Secondly: transporting an enormous sunflower arrangement across Manhattan before sunrise made a person look deeply unstable.

The town car pulled smoothly toward Elias-Clarke through cold gray morning traffic while Emily sat rigidly in the backseat cradling the vase with the grim focus of someone escorting a medically fragile relative through customs.

The flowers occupied nearly an entire seat beside her. Huge golden heads spilled cheerfully outward beneath weak winter light filtering through the windows, entirely too bright for seven in the morning and entirely too emotionally loaded for Emily’s current psychological condition.

Every so often the driver glanced nervously into the rearview mirror. Emily ignored him with hostility.

Outside, Manhattan moved sluggishly through freezing February haze. Steam curled upward from subway grates. Pedestrians hunched into scarves against the wind. Taxis hissed through wet streets reflecting pale silver sky.

And in the middle of all this sat Emily Charlton in immaculate camel wool carrying sunflowers to work like a woman midway through a breakdown nobody was legally allowed to acknowledge. Honestly, if anyone from Runway saw this, she’d have to kill them.

-

Unfortunately, people at Elias-Clarke possessed eyes.

The moment Emily stepped through the revolving lobby doors balancing her suitcase in one hand and the enormous vase in the other, the security guard near reception physically blinked. Then blinked again.

And to his credit, he recovered professionally. “Morning, Miss Charlton.”

Emily adjusted the vase carefully against her hip. Water sloshed dangerously near the rim. “Good morning.”

A pause. The guard looked cautiously toward the flowers. Then toward Emily herself, whose expression suggested she had already considered murder at least twice before eight a.m.

“…Would you like help carrying those upstairs?”

“No thank you.”

The refusal arrived instantly.

Then, after half a beat, Emily reluctantly extended the suitcase handle toward him instead. “You may take this.”

The guard accepted the suitcase immediately with the careful solemnity of someone handling diplomatic negotiations. “Thank you,” he said.

Emily nodded once and continued toward the elevators carrying the flowers herself. Because absolutely nobody else was touching them.

The elevator doors slid open moments later with a soft chime. Inside stood three Elias-Clarke employees midway through exhausted early-morning silence. One beauty assistant clutching coffee, a stylist balancing garment bags, and an intern visibly trying not to die before eight-thirty.

All three looked up automatically when Emily approached. Then all three visibly froze.

Because what they saw was this; Emily Charlton. Immaculate coat. Murderously blank expression. Gigantic vase of aggressively cheerful sunflowers clutched against her chest like emotionally significant artillery.

The silence inside the elevator shifted immediately into something almost spiritual.

Emily stepped inside. The others did not.

For one suspended second everyone simply stared at one another while elevator music hummed softly overhead.

Then the beauty assistant smiled tightly. “We’ll get the next one.”

Emily looked at her flatly. “Wise.”

The doors slid closed. And suddenly it was only Emily and the security guard standing beside her suitcase in complete silence while the elevator ascended toward Runway.

The flowers occupied nearly half the lift. One sunflower brushed lightly against the mirrored wall.

The guard stared determinedly forward with the profound focus of a man actively refusing curiosity for survival reasons.

Emily shifted the vase slightly. Water sloshed again.

The guard finally risked one cautious glance toward the arrangement before quickly correcting himself. “…They’re very bright,” he offered diplomatically.

Emily stared straight ahead. “Don’t start.”

“…Right.”

The rest of the ride passed in reverent silence.

-

The Runway floor reacted exactly as expected.

The elevator doors opened. And immediately, the corridor shifted.

Assistants rushing past slowed instinctively. Conversations faltered. Someone carrying coffee physically stepped aside so quickly she nearly collided with a garment rack.

Because Emily Charlton emerged from the elevator at full speed carrying giant sunflowers with the expression of a woman one inconvenience away from public execution. Nobody in their right mind blocked that path.

The security guard trailed behind her wheeling the suitcase quietly while Emily strode through the office in sharp decisive clicks of heels against polished floors, camel coat sweeping dramatically behind her.

Phones rang somewhere deeper inside the magazine. Garment bags rustled. Editors moved quickly between offices clutching lookbooks and coffees and existential dread.

And through the middle of it all marched Emily Charlton carrying enough emotional symbolism to qualify as performance art.

People moved aside instinctively as she passed.

One intern whispered faintly, “Are those—”

“Don’t,” hissed another immediately.

Smart.

Emily swept past them without slowing.

Then finally she reached Miranda’s outer office.

Georgia sat already at her desk surrounded by printed itineraries and color-coded folders, chewing nervously on the end of a pen while squinting at what appeared to be flight confirmations.

She looked up automatically at the sound of approaching heels. And froze.

“…Oh.”

Emily said nothing.

Very carefully, astonishingly carefully, actually, she crossed the room and lowered the enormous vase onto Georgia’s desk with both hands. Not a single petal bent. Not a drop of water spilled. The movement itself felt so strangely gentle coming from Emily that Georgia stared openly in confusion.

The flowers glowed warmly beneath the office lights, absurdly golden against stacks of schedules and paperwork.

Emily adjusted one stem lightly where it had shifted during transport. Then immediately straightened back into herself again.

“Right,” she said briskly, already removing gloves. “While I’m gone, Miranda’s revised fitting confirmations are arriving by courier this afternoon. The Valentino pieces stay in garment bags. Do not touch the McQueen samples under any circumstances because apparently fabric preservation now falls entirely upon my shoulders alone.”

Georgia blinked rapidly trying to keep up. “Okay—”

“The Rome schedules are color-coded alphabetically, not chronologically, because Nigel reorganized them incorrectly at midnight and I refuse to suffer for it.”

“Right.”

“And if anyone asks for the updated dinner seating before I land, stall them until I regain international phone access.”

Georgia nodded frantically.

Emily pointed suddenly toward the flowers. “And these require fresh water every morning.”

Georgia looked startled. “The flowers?”

“Yes, Georgia, the flowers.” Emily’s expression sharpened dangerously. “Not too cold because it shocks the stems. Cut the ends diagonally tomorrow evening. They need sunlight after noon but not direct heat because radiators murder living things.”

Georgia stared at her.

Emily continued mercilessly, “If I return from Rome and find one single wilting petal, I will personally ensure your descendants inherit the consequences.”

“…Okay,” Georgia said weakly.

Emily narrowed her eyes further. “I’m serious.”

“I can tell.”

“And absolutely no one touches them.”

Another pause.

Georgia glanced cautiously toward the bouquet again. The sunflowers looked wildly out of place inside Miranda Priestly’s outer office. Too warm. Too bright. Too happy. Like someone had accidentally dropped sunlight into Runway and nobody knew how to process it.

Georgia frowned slightly. Then because survival instincts had unfortunately abandoned her completely, she asked, “…Why do you care so much about this bouquet?”

Emily stilled.

Georgia immediately sensed danger too late but continued anyway with genuine confusion, “I just mean… sunflowers are sort of…”

Emily looked at her slowly. “…What.”

Georgia swallowed. “Very un-you?”

Silence.

Somewhere beyond the office walls, phones rang faintly. A stylist laughed too loudly near accessories. The espresso machine hissed in the kitchenette.

Inside the outer office, Emily Charlton stood perfectly motionless beside a vase full of giant yellow sunflowers while something unreadable flickered once sharply across her face. Then vanished.

Georgia visibly reconsidered every decision leading up to this moment.

Emily removed her gloves finger by finger with terrifying calm. “Georgia,” she said softly, “have you perhaps suffered a recent head injury.”

Georgia straightened instantly. “No.”

“Then I strongly recommend never speaking about this again.”

“…Okay.”

Emily’s gaze lingered one second longer on the flowers. And for the briefest flicker of a moment, something inside her expression softened almost painfully before she locked it away again.

“Water every morning,” she repeated quietly.

For one uncertain second Georgia only blinked at her. Then, cautiously, like someone approaching an unexploded device, she reached out one tentative finger toward a sunflower petal.

Emily slapped her hand away immediately. “Don’t touch them.”

Georgia jumped. “Ow!”

“You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“I was literally just touching a flower—”

“And people have accidentally killed orchids with less.”

Georgia rubbed the back of her hand in visible offense while Emily adjusted the disturbed bloom with absurd delicacy. Her expression remained severe enough to frighten small nations.

Nearby, one of the assistants passing through the outer office visibly slowed to witness this deeply bizarre interaction.

Emily noticed instantly. “Do you need something?” she asked coldly.

The assistant fled.

Georgia stared at the flowers again. Then at Emily. Then back at the flowers. “…You brought them to work.”

Emily removed her gloves finger by finger with clipped precision. “Your observational skills continue to astound.”

“No, but I mean—” Georgia lowered her voice instinctively, eyes widening. “You brought them to work.”

Emily looked up flatly. “And yet somehow civilization continues.”

Georgia opened her mouth again. Then stopped abruptly as Miranda’s office doors swept open.

Immediately the atmosphere shifted.

Miranda Priestly emerged already immaculate in charcoal gray cashmere, sunglasses in hand despite the winter gloom outside, her expression carrying the particular icy focus that meant everyone within a twenty-foot radius risked psychological annihilation.

Nigel followed behind her balancing a leather portfolio beneath one arm and coffee in the other hand, looking dramatically under-rested but elegant enough to survive it.

Miranda crossed halfway through the outer office before stopping. Her eyes landed on the sunflowers. 

A pause. Not long. Barely two seconds. But in Miranda Priestly timing, two seconds qualified as a full investigative documentary.

Beside the desk, Emily went perfectly still.

Nigel followed Miranda’s gaze toward the enormous arrangement glowing brightly under the office lights. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, one eyebrow lifted.

Georgia—traitor that she was—immediately volunteered, “They’re Emily’s.”

Emily closed her eyes briefly.

Miranda made a low, unreadable sound somewhere between acknowledgment and mild anthropological curiosity. “Mm.”

That was all. But unfortunately Miranda’s mm contained entire emotional ecosystems.

Emily kept her face perfectly neutral. “The water schedule has already been explained.”

Miranda’s gaze shifted lazily toward her. “How reassuring.”

Nigel, meanwhile, was still looking at the flowers. Then at Emily. And suddenly, disastrously, he smiled.

He smiled knowingly enough to make Emily want to throw herself directly into the traffic. “Oh,” Nigel said lightly. “Well now this is interesting.”

Emily rolled her eyes instantly. “Don’t.”

Miranda removed her gloves with elegant indifference. “The Valentino confirmations?”

Emily snapped immediately back into professionalism. “Already printed and inside your carry folder. Rome weather dropped six degrees overnight, so I adjusted outerwear selections for Saturday arrivals.”

“Mm.”

“The Fendi showroom moved tomorrow’s fitting thirty minutes earlier after Milan complained about editorial overlap.”

“Predictable.”

Nigel glanced once more toward the flowers while sipping coffee. “Very cheerful arrangement for someone who usually decorates like a Scandinavian funeral home.”

Emily stared at him. “I can still leave you here.”

Nigel grinned openly now.

Miranda accepted a folder from Emily without another visible reaction to the flowers whatsoever, though the faintest trace of amusement lingered somewhere near the corner of her mouth. Which was honestly more terrifying than judgment.

“Five minutes,” Miranda said crisply, already turning toward her office. “Then we leave.”

“Yes, Miranda.”

The office moved instantly back into motion around her.

Miranda disappeared behind the office doors. And the second they closed, Nigel pivoted dramatically toward Emily with the full focus of a man scenting premium gossip.

“Oh no,” Emily sighed immediately.

“Oh yes,” Nigel replied.

Georgia perked up visibly.

Emily pointed at her without looking. “You are not included in this conversation.”

Georgia wilted. “I’m literally sitting here.”

“And yet spiritually absent.”

Nigel leaned casually against the desk, eyes sparkling now. “So. Flowers.”

Emily shuffled through itineraries with violent professionalism. “Astounding deduction.”

“Sunflowers.”

“No, Nigel, daffodils.”

“Transported across Manhattan before sunrise, apparently.”

Emily froze for half a second.

Nigel’s grin widened triumphantly. “Ah. So I’m correct.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” he replied smugly, “are very obviously seeing someone.”

Georgia’s mouth fell open slightly.

Emily didn’t even look up. “I hate this office.”

Nigel continued mercilessly, “And judging by the fact you nearly committed homicide when Georgia touched a petal, I’m assuming this someone matters.”

Emily signed a document so aggressively the pen nearly tore through paper.

“We’re going to Rome,” she informed him coldly. “Perhaps while we’re there you could develop a hobby.”

“I have one now.” Nigel gestured toward her. “This.”

Georgia made a tiny choking noise trying not to laugh.

Emily shot her a lethal look.

Nigel, entirely undeterred, folded his arms. “So who is it?”

“No one.”

“Mm. And the flowers simply manifested spontaneously because the universe sensed your emotional repression.”

Emily ignored him.

Nigel tilted his head thoughtfully. “Finance?”

“No.”

“Designer?”

“No.”

“Actor?”

Emily looked horrified. “Absolutely not.”

“Journalist?”

Something microscopic shifted across Emily’s face. Nigel caught it instantly. His eyes widened with delight. “Oh my God.”

Emily’s stomach dropped.

“Oh my God,” Nigel repeated louder, pointing at her now. “It is a journalist.”

“It is not.”

“It absolutely is.”

Georgia gasped softly like this was premium television.

Emily rounded on her immediately. “Why are you still listening?”

“Because this is the best day of my life.”

Nigel was positively radiant now. “No wonder you’ve been acting clinically insane all week.”

“I always act clinically insane.”

“Yes, but lately with emotional subtext.”

Emily wanted to die.

Nigel lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Do I know them?”

“No.”

“A lie.”

“Truth.”

“Man or woman?”

Emily looked up sharply. “Nigel.”

“Oh, definitely woman,” he declared instantly.

Georgia’s eyes somehow widened even further.

Emily pressed fingers hard against her temple. “I’m begging both of you to become professional suddenly.”

Nigel looked delighted beyond measure now, entirely too entertained by this development.

“You like her,” he realized softly.

Emily’s expression flattened instantly into something dangerous. “Careful.”

But unfortunately the warning came approximately thirty seconds too late. Because Nigel had already seen it. tThe flowers carefully arranged, the protectiveness, the exhaustion underneath Emily’s sharpness, the unmistakable expression of someone trying very hard not to care too much and failing spectacularly.

And beneath all his amusement, his face softened just slightly. “Well,” he said more gently now, “that explains the sunflowers.”

Emily looked away immediately, reorganizing papers that absolutely did not require reorganizing. “That explains nothing.”

Nigel smiled quietly into his coffee.

Which somehow felt worse than the teasing.

-

By the time they reached JFK, Emily felt stretched so tightly emotionally she was beginning to suspect one additional inconvenience might cause visible structural damage.

The terminal glowed bright and sterile beneath endless white lighting while travelers dragged luggage through polished corridors in varying stages of exhaustion and airport despair. Somewhere nearby a child screamed continuously with the stamina of a professional athlete.

Miranda moved through all of it like royalty crossing occupied territory. Nobody blocked her path. Nobody delayed her. People simply sensed danger instinctively and moved aside.

Emily followed half a step behind balancing three passports, two boarding folders, Miranda’s phone, and the last remaining fragments of her sanity.

Nigel walked beside them carrying coffee and looking entirely too refreshed for someone who’d slept approximately forty minutes in the last three days.

The private lounge upstairs was mercifully quiet.

Soft leather seating. Dim amber lighting. Expensive alcohol gleaming behind polished bars while muted conversations drifted lazily through the space. Outside enormous windows, planes moved slowly across gray rain-dark tarmac beneath the heavy February sky.

Emily finally exhaled for what felt like the first time all morning. Briefly.

Then Miranda decided she hated the espresso. “Why,” she asked coolly after one sip, “does this taste sour?”

The lounge attendant visibly panicked.

Emily intervened instantly. “I’ll get another.”

Nigel watched her disappear toward the coffee counter with visible amusement. “You know,” he murmured toward Miranda, “if she survives thirty minutes without committing homicide, it’ll qualify as medical history.”

Miranda adjusted the sleeve of her coat elegantly. “Emily thrives under pressure.”

“She’s carrying flowers emotionally.”

Miranda’s mouth shifted almost imperceptibly around the rim of her cup. “Mm.”

Nigel grinned faintly into his own coffee.

-

Ten minutes later final boarding preparations began.

An airline representative approached their seating area with the careful composure of someone fully aware Miranda Priestly could destroy careers recreationally.

“Ms. Priestly?” he said politely. “We’re ready to escort you to boarding.”

Miranda stood immediately. Nigel gathered his things beside her while Emily checked automatically for passports again despite already checking them seventeen times.

Then her phone rang. The sound startled her slightly.

Emily glanced down automatically.

Andrea Sachs Calling.

Her pulse stumbled hard enough to physically hurt.

For one brief second instinct took over immediately. Decline it. Like she had before. 

Her thumb even moved toward the button. Then stopped.

Because in less than twenty minutes she’d be trapped on an eight-hour flight over the Atlantic with nothing except her own thoughts for company. And somehow the idea of leaving things like this suddenly felt unbearable.

Emily swallowed once.

“I’ll be a moment,” she said briskly without looking up.

Miranda barely acknowledged it. “Don’t delay boarding.”

Nigel glanced once toward the screen. Then toward Emily’s face.

l Something quiet and observant flickered briefly across his expression before he simply nodded and followed Miranda toward the private boarding corridor.

Emily waited until they disappeared from sight. Then finally answered.

“What.”

The word came out sharper than intended.

A pause met her immediately.

“…Hi to you too. Thank God I can finally reach you,” Andy said softly.

God. Just hearing her voice after nearly two days of deliberate distance made something painful twist sharply beneath Emily’s ribs. Warmth. Relief. Wanting.

Emily hated it instantly.

Around her the lounge hummed quietly with distant conversation and clinking glasses while rain streaked softly against enormous airport windows.

Andy spoke again, careful this time. “Are you busy?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

“Okay,” Andy replied gently. “I just—”

She hesitated briefly. And suddenly Emily knew. Knew this wasn’t casual. Knew Andrea had noticed. Knew this call mattered.

Emily’s grip tightened around the phone.

Andy exhaled softly on the other end. “Em, did I do something?”

The question landed directly inside Emily’s chest.

“No.” It came out too fast.

Andy heard it anyway. “Then why have you been avoiding me?”

Emily looked away toward the dark runway outside the windows. Planes moved slowly through rain haze beneath dull silver skies. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“Emily.”

God. There it was again, that voice. Ever so gentle. And patient. Like Andrea genuinely cared enough to keep trying.

Emily suddenly wished viciously she’d never answered.

Andy continued quietly, “You stopped replying to my texts.”

“I’ve been working.”

“I know you’ve been working.”

“Andrea—”

“You stopped answering my calls too.”

Emily closed her eyes briefly. Because none of this was supposed to sound this intimate. This serious. This much like two people hurting each other accidentally.

Across the lounge, an airline employee announced boarding for another international flight in smooth practiced tones.

Emily’s chest tightened harder.

Andy’s voice softened further. “I just wanted to check if I’d done something wrong.”

And there it was. The opening. The moment Emily could say it. Handed to her so easily like that.  I saw you. At the restaurant. With him. The flowers. The kiss.

Instead she said absolutely nothing. Because suddenly the idea of sounding jealous felt unbearable. It was so ridiculously pathetic.

So Emily stood there silently unraveling while Andrea waited on the other end of the line for an explanation Emily physically could not force past her throat.

Finally Andy spoke again, quieter now. “Em?”

Something sharp cracked painfully inside Emily’s chest at the concern in her voice.

And instantly, horribly, the restaurant replayed again in her mind. Andrea laughing. Leaning close. Sunflowers blazing gold between them. That smile afterward.

Jealousy surged back so suddenly it almost stole her breath. Emily’s eyes burned immediately. No. Absolutely not. Not here.

She straightened sharply, pressing fingers hard against her temple. “You didn’t do anything,” she said tightly.

Andy paused. “Then why do you sound like this?”

Because I thought I mattered differently. The answer rose violently inside her throat.

Emily swallowed it back down hard enough to hurt. “I’m tired.”

“Emily—”

“No, really,” Emily cut in quickly, voice suddenly strained around the edges now despite her best efforts. “I’m exhausted, Andrea.”

Andy went quiet. And somehow that silence felt worse.

Then carefully, “You can tell me if something’s wrong.”

God. Emily looked down sharply toward the floor because suddenly tears threatened with horrifying force all over again. This was unbelievable. Actually unbelievable. She was standing inside an airport lounge in a Max Mara coat trying not to cry over Andrea Sachs for the second time this week. Humiliating.

Andy’s voice gentled further when Emily didn’t answer immediately. “Hey.”

That nearly destroyed her completely. Emily inhaled sharply through her nose. Her composure slipped another dangerous inch anyway.

“Please stop calling me,” she said suddenly.

The words emerged strained and uneven. 

A stunned silence followed. Even the airport noise around her seemed to dull briefly afterward.

“…What?” Andy asked quietly.

Emily stared hard at the rain outside. Because if Andrea kept sounding worried and soft like this, Emily genuinely might break apart in public.

“I’m boarding now,” she said quickly.

Andy sounded completely thrown now. “Boarding? Wait, where are you—”

“I have to go.”

“Emily—”

“Goodbye, Andrea.”

And before her voice could betray her any further, Emily hung up.

Her hand trembled afterward.

For several seconds she simply stood there motionless gripping the phone too tightly while her pulse roared unevenly in her ears.

Then finally she inhaled once, hard. Pulled herself together with brute force alone. And walked toward boarding.

-

The private cabin smelled faintly of leather, coffee, and expensive perfume. Soft overhead lighting glowed warmly against cream interiors while flight attendants moved quietly through the aisle preparing for departure.

Miranda already sat near the window reviewing documents with absolute indifference toward humanity. Nigel occupied the seat across from her scrolling through emails on his phone.

Emily stepped aboard still clutching hers. And Nigel looked up automatically. Then froze slightly.

Because Emily Charlton—immaculate coat, perfect posture, flawless hair—also very obviously looked like she had either been crying or come extremely close. Her eyes remained faintly reddened beneath otherwise perfect makeup. The careful blankness in her expression somehow made it more obvious, not less.

Nigel stared at her for one brief assessing second. Emily immediately looked away.

“Thank you,” she said crisply to the flight attendant who showed her to her seat before sitting down.

Nigel continued watching her quietly.

Emily busied herself mechanically with fastening her seatbelt despite the fact her hands still felt unsteady.

Beside her, Nigel finally spoke softly enough that Miranda wouldn’t bother listening. “…That bad?”

Emily’s throat tightened instantly. She kept her eyes fixed forward. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Nigel studied her for another moment.

“Ah.”

Which somehow felt infinitely worse than questions.

Emily stared rigidly ahead while rain streaked across the airplane windows beside them and somewhere far below Manhattan waited cold and unfinished beneath the February sky. And tucked deep inside her coat pocket, her phone remained dark and silent all the way through takeoff.

The plane lifted smoothly through thick gray cloud cover while Manhattan disappeared beneath them in fractured ribbons of light and rain.

Emily sat rigidly beside the window watching the city vanish anyway.

Below, New York blurred smaller and smaller beneath winter haze. Bridges turned delicate. Streets dissolved into pale grids. The Hudson reflected dull silver beneath the storm-dark sky.

And despite everything—despite Rome, despite Miranda, despite the emotional catastrophe currently unfolding inside her ribcage—Emily still found herself thinking absurdly: Georgia better not kill those flowers.

The realization irritated her instantly. Honestly, this had become psychological warfare at this point.

Emily closed her eyes briefly and leaned her head back against the leather seat with exhausted restraint. Somewhere beneath the steady drone of engines, Miranda flipped calmly through briefing documents across the aisle entirely untouched by human suffering. Lucky woman.

Meanwhile Emily’s own thoughts continued spiraling helplessly back toward Andrea. The phone call replayed immediately now that there was nowhere left to escape it.

Please stop calling me.

God. Heat crawled slowly into Emily’s face even now beneath the dim cabin lighting. Because Andrea had sounded genuinely hurt afterward. Confused too. And Emily, instead of behaving like a rational emotionally competent adult, had essentially panicked and fled internationally.

Excellent work.

Outside the window, clouds swallowed the aircraft completely. Emily stared blankly at the pale white nothingness surrounding them while guilt and jealousy twisted together unpleasantly inside her chest.

Because maybe Andrea really had done nothing wrong. Maybe Emily had overreacted catastrophically. Maybe she’d seen one moment through a restaurant window and transformed it into emotional apocalypse because somewhere deep down she already expected disappointment.

The thought settled heavily inside her stomach. Then immediately afterward came another one: What if Georgia forgot the stems needed trimming tomorrow?

Emily physically closed her eyes harder. “Oh my God,” she muttered quietly to herself. This was unsustainable.

The seatbelt sign dinged softly overhead as the aircraft finally leveled into steady altitude. Around the cabin flight attendants began moving quietly through aisles preparing drink service while soft ambient lighting dimmed warmer overhead.

Beside her, Nigel looked up from his tablet. And continued looking.

Emily sensed it instantly without turning. “No,” she said preemptively.

Nigel removed his glasses slowly. “I haven’t spoken.”

“You were about to.”

“I was about to assess whether you planned on sitting there emotionally decomposing for the next eight hours.”

Emily stared ahead stiffly. “I’m working.”

“You’ve been glaring at the same cloud for twenty minutes.”

“It’s a very irritating cloud.”

Nigel sighed dramatically, unfastened his seatbelt, and stood.

Emily immediately narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Intervening.”

“Nigel—”

Too late.

He crossed the aisle smoothly and slid into the empty seat beside her before she could stop him, settling comfortably like a man preparing for premium entertainment.

Emily looked genuinely offended. “This feels invasive.”

“You look one inconvenience away from tears again.”

“I do not.”

Nigel simply stared at her.

Emily lasted approximately four seconds before looking away first.

“Right,” Nigel said softly. “Exactly.”

The engines hummed steadily around them while rain tapped faintly against the window somewhere beyond the clouds.

Emily crossed her arms tightly. “I’m tired.”

“No, darling,” Nigel replied gently. “You’re miserable.”

The accuracy landed unpleasantly.

Emily kept her gaze fixed forward. “I’m perfectly capable of surviving misery independently.”

“Yes, but watching you attempt it is becoming exhausting for the rest of us.”

“I hate when you become emotionally perceptive.”

Nigel smiled faintly. “Occupational hazard.”

A flight attendant passed offering champagne. Emily accepted one immediately.

Nigel took the glass carefully from her hand before she could drink it. “Absolutely not.”

Emily stared at him in outrage. “Give that back.”

“You already look emotionally unwell. We’re not adding altitude and alcohol to this equation.”

“Nigel.”

“No.”

The flight attendant quietly removed the champagne again while Emily glared with profound betrayal.

Nigel watched her carefully for another moment before speaking more softly. “You know,” he said, “when Caleb cheated on you, you didn’t cry.”

Emily stiffened slightly. God. Caleb. She hadn’t thought about him in months. Mostly because there was very little to think about. Caleb had cheated on her with a Pilates instructor named Savannah who once described herself at dinner as “spiritually aligned with citrus.” Emily had broken up with him the following morning with enough emotional investment to cancel a dentist appointment.

Nigel continued quietly, “You were furious. Deeply sarcastic. Mildly homicidal, yes. But not… this.”

Emily looked down toward her hands folded tightly in her lap.

The cabin lights glowed softly gold against dark leather while somewhere farther ahead Miranda requested sparkling water with the authority of a monarch addressing parliament.

Nigel leaned back slightly beside her. “You look,” he said carefully, “like someone trying very hard not to fall apart in couture.”

Emily laughed once under her breath despite herself. Short. Tired. “Elegant,” she muttered.

“Concerning.”

Then Nigel nudged her lightly with one elbow. “Come on.”

Emily frowned faintly. “Come on what?”

“You clearly need to talk to someone before you internally combust somewhere over the Atlantic.”

“I’m not combusting.”

“You took a call from someone and then boarded an international flight looking freshly devastated.”

Emily froze.

Nigel raised one eyebrow knowingly. “You have crying eyes,” he informed her gently. “I’ve known you too long to miss that.”

Emily looked away immediately toward the window again. Clouds drifted endlessly outside now, pale and soft beneath winter sunlight somewhere high above the storm.

For several seconds she said nothing.

Then finally, “…You’re being extremely intrusive.”

“And yet still correct.”

Emily exhaled slowly through her nose.

God. The exhaustion probably weakened her defenses more than anything else. That and altitude. And the fact that somewhere beneath all her sharpness and pride and humiliation, she was simply tired of carrying this alone.

Nigel waited patiently beside her.

Eventually Emily spoke without looking at him. “I saw her with someone.”

Nigel stayed quiet immediately. Encouraging. Careful.

Emily swallowed once. “At lunch. A few days ago.”

The memory returned instantly vivid enough to ache: warm restaurant lighting, sunflowers, Andrea smiling.

Emily’s throat tightened. “She was having lunch with some man,” she said tightly. “And there were flowers and laughing and—” she stopped abruptly, jaw tightening, “it looked very intimate.”

Nigel nodded slowly but didn’t interrupt.

Emily stared hard toward the window. “And afterward she kept texting me normally like nothing had happened.”

“Did you ask her about it?”

Emily looked horrified. “Absolutely not.”

Nigel sighed.

“I’m serious,” Emily continued defensively. “What was I supposed to say? Hello, I happened to witness your romantic luncheon through a rain-covered restaurant window while carrying Hermès bags and emotionally spiraling?”

“…When you phrase it like that, admittedly difficult.”

“Exactly.”

Nigel rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. “Did she ever actually say this person was romantic?”

Emily opened her mouth. Paused.

“…No.”

“And did you ask?”

“No.”

“Did she mention him at all?”

Emily’s silence answered sufficiently. Nigel gave her a long look.

Emily immediately bristled. “Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re thinking loudly.”

He smiled slightly. “Only because this sounds remarkably like jealousy and remarkably unlike betrayal.”

Emily’s chest tightened painfully. Because yes. That was exactly the problem.

“She looked happy,” Emily admitted quietly after a moment. “With him.”

The words came smaller now. More honest.

“And suddenly I felt…” she stopped.

Nigel waited.

Emily swallowed hard. “Stupid.”

Nigel’s expression softened immediately beside her. “Emily.”

“I know,” she said quickly, voice sharpening again defensively. “It’s irrational. We weren’t even officially together. Nothing had happened yet. But I thought…” Her throat tightened abruptly. “I thought maybe I mattered differently.”

Nigel went very still beside her after that. The engines hummed softly around them.

Emily stared downward now, blinking once too quickly. God. She hated this conversation already.

“She brought me flowers,” Emily muttered finally like this explained everything.

Nigel looked startled despite himself. “Sunflowers?”

Emily nodded once. “And then I saw the same flowers at lunch.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” The sympathy in his voice nearly undid her immediately.

Emily pressed fingers hard against her temple. “Please don’t sound compassionate. I’ll throw myself out of the aircraft.”

Nigel ignored that completely. Instead he asked gently, “Do you like her very much?”

Emily laughed softly then. A terrible sound, really. Thin with exhaustion.“I transported flowers across Manhattan at seven in the morning because I couldn’t bear the thought of them dying while I was gone,” she said flatly. “What do you think?”

Nigel stared at her for one long moment.

“Well.”

Emily covered her face briefly with one hand. “I know.”

“No,” Nigel said, fighting visible amusement now despite himself, “I don’t think you do.”

Emily groaned quietly into her palm.

And somewhere far below them, the Atlantic stretched endlessly onward while Emily Charlton finally admitted aloud, somewhere between heartbreak, jealousy, and absurd sunflower maintenance schedules, that she was in very serious trouble indeed.

-

The next morning in Rome arrived gold and cold and entirely wasted on Emily Charlton’s emotional state.

Not that Rome itself lacked beauty. It was objectively impossible to ignore beauty here.

Even half-asleep beneath lingering jet lag, Emily still noticed the way morning light spilled honey-colored across ancient stone buildings outside the hotel windows. Narrow streets glowed softly after overnight rain, café awnings fluttering gently beneath pale blue sky while scooters buzzed recklessly through intersections with what appeared to be complete disregard for mortality.

Rome practically oozed romance from the pavement. Which frankly felt targeted.

By the time Emily finally escaped Miranda’s first round of morning demands—coffee too cold, lighting in the suite offensive, Italian newspapers apparently “visually irritating”—she had exactly four free hours before fittings resumed.

Four hours. Enough time, theoretically, to begin Operation Forget Andrea Sachs.

Emily had named it sarcastically inside her own head sometime around three-thirty that morning while lying awake in a luxury hotel bed unable to sleep because Andrea still existed aggressively inside her thoughts.

Operation Forget Andrea Sachs involved:

1. Culture.
2. Work.
3. Pasta.
4. Emotional repression.
5. Potentially attractive Europeans.

A flawless strategy, honestly.

So by ten-thirty that morning, Emily found herself striding briskly through the halls of the Vatican Museums in heeled boots and oversized sunglasses despite the fact she had slept approximately four hours total and remained emotionally unstable beneath designer outerwear.

Tourists drifted around her in noisy clusters beneath painted ceilings while guides waved little flags and spoke rapidly in six different languages at once. Emily ignored everyone expertly.

Art helped, slightly.

There was something calming about beautiful things created long before her own personal emotional disasters existed. Marble statues did not care about sunflowers. Renaissance paintings had never watched Andrea Sachs lean toward another man across candlelight.

And Rome itself demanded attention constantly. Every corridor opened into another impossible ceiling. Another gallery. Another breathtaking room flooded with history and color and impossible human talent.

Emily paused briefly before one enormous Raphael fresco, arms folded tightly across her coat while tourists murmured around her. The painting glowed softly beneath museum lighting, all warmth and movement and human closeness.

And immediately, instinctively, Emily thought: Andrea would love this.

The realization hit so fast she physically closed her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

A nearby tourist glanced at her nervously before moving away.

Emily exhaled sharply through her nose and continued walking. This was fine. Perfectly manageable. She absolutely did not need to text Andrea a photograph of the gallery with some cutting remark about men spending four years painting ceilings instead of attending therapy.

No. Operation Forget Andrea Sachs remained fully operational. Mostly.

-

Twenty minutes later, it failed again beside a marble sculpture.

Emily stood staring thoughtfully upward at a partially ruined Roman statue while an aggressively attractive Italian man attempted to flirt with her in accented English.

“You are here alone?” he asked smoothly.

Emily didn’t look away from the sculpture. “Deliberately.”

He smiled anyway. “Rome is better with company.”

“Historically debatable.”

That earned a laugh.

The man stepped closer, charming and warm in that effortless European way that probably worked on nearly everyone. “At least let me buy you coffee.”

Emily finally looked at him properly. Objectively speaking, he was gorgeous. Dark curls. Beautiful mouth. Excellent coat. Probably emotionally available.

Under ordinary circumstances Emily might even have entertained this briefly for sport.

Instead her brain immediately supplied: God, his scarf is hideous. I should tell Andrea about this. 

Emily stared blankly ahead. God damn it.

The Italian man was still smiling expectantly. “Coffee?”

Emily sighed softly through her nose. “You seem lovely,” she informed him honestly. “Unfortunately I’m currently being psychologically haunted by an American journalist.”

The man blinked. “…Ah.”

“Yes.”

“…This sounds serious.”

“It’s unbearable.”

To his credit, he laughed.

Emily gave him a tired nod before continuing onward through the museum alone while somewhere behind her the beautiful Italian probably reconsidered approaching emotionally exhausted British women altogether.

Operation Forget Andrea Sachs: failing catastrophically.

-

By noon, Emily had consumed:

• one espresso,
• one pistachio pastry,
• three accidental emotional flashbacks,
• and approximately six separate urges to text Andrea.

Not that she would. Absolutely not. 

Instead she walked. Rome unfolded around her in golden layers while church bells echoed softly somewhere beyond crowded piazzas. Street musicians played violins near fountains older than entire countries. Vespas screamed recklessly through narrow roads while sunlight spilled warmly across ancient stone.

And everywhere Emily looked, her first instinct remained: Andrea would like this. An exhibit of handwritten Renaissance letters. Andrea would photograph those. A tiny café tucked beside ivy-covered ruins. Andrea would insist the coffee tasted “life-changing.” An elderly Italian woman yelling passionately at her husband through an apartment window. Andrea would absolutely adore her.

It was maddening. Because Emily had specifically flown four thousand miles away to stop thinking about Andrea Sachs. Instead Andrea had apparently relocated directly into her internal monologue.

By early afternoon Emily found herself sitting alone at a small outdoor café near Piazza Navona beneath drifting winter sunlight, sunglasses pushed into her hair while untouched pasta cooled slowly in front of her.

Nearby tourists laughed over wine. Waiters moved gracefully between tables. The city shimmered gold and alive around her. And despite all of it—despite Rome and couture and museums and beautiful men and ancient architecture—Emily still missed Andrea with physical force.

Constantly. In tiny terrible ways. Missing the impulse to text her. Missing her stupid observations. Missing the warmth of her attention threaded casually through ordinary moments.

Emily stared down at her wine glass. This was becoming deeply unacceptable.

A couple at the next table leaned close together laughing softly over dessert. Emily looked away instantly.

Then, before she could stop herself, her hand reached automatically toward her phone. Just instinct. Just habit.

She unlocked it. And there, beneath unanswered messages and silence stretching back days now, sat Andrea’s last text:

Hope Georgia gives you a break. Call me when you’re free?

Emily’s chest tightened painfully. God. She could text now. Technically.

Rome softened people. Distance softened things. Nigel had been right on the plane, maybe this entire disaster had spiraled because Emily refused to simply ask one honest question like a functional adult instead of emotionally detonating privately for a week.

Maybe Andrea would explain. Maybe Emily had misunderstood. Maybe—No.

Humiliation arrived immediately afterward, hot and sharp. Because what exactly would she even say? Hello, sorry I vanished emotionally after seeing you maybe-kiss someone through a restaurant window while carrying symbolic flowers that accidentally ruined my mental stability?

Absolutely not.

Emily locked the phone again firmly and shoved it back into her bag.

Operation Forget Andrea Sachs remained active. Technically. Even if Rome itself seemed determined to sabotage her by becoming unbearably beautiful in precisely the ways Andrea would have loved most.

-

The afternoon swallowed Emily whole afterward. Which helped. Work always helped.

Because once Miranda Priestly fully entered pre-show preparation mode, ordinary human emotions ceased to exist entirely beneath the crushing weight of couture-related crisis management.

By three o’clock Emily had already:

• reorganized two fittings,
• threatened a stylist from Milan,
• located missing Swarovski earrings through what was arguably investigative journalism,
• and prevented Miranda from firing a lighting coordinator whose only real crime had been existing visibly nearby during a stressful moment.

The backstage areas thrummed with beautiful chaos. Steam hissed from garment presses. Models drifted through corridors wrapped in silk robes and exhaustion. Designers spoke rapidly in Italian while assistants sprinted between dressing rooms carrying shoes worth more than cars.

And through the center of it all moved Emily Charlton in black tailoring and sharp heels, clipboard tucked beneath one arm, expression composed enough to suggest she had never once cried publicly over a woman and some flowers.

Operation Forget Andrea Sachs had temporarily regained control. Mostly because there genuinely wasn’t room inside Emily’s brain for anything else while Miranda kept inventing fresh catastrophes every twenty minutes.

“Why,” Miranda asked coldly at one point while examining a gown, “does this fabric suddenly look so boring?”

Nobody answered. Smart.

Nigel caught Emily’s eye briefly from across the fitting room afterward. She immediately looked away.

Because unfortunately Nigel had begun watching her now with the deeply irritating perception of someone who knew entirely too much about human beings. Not enough details, thankfully. But enough.

Enough to notice Emily checking her phone unconsciously between meetings. Enough to notice the exhaustion sitting bruised beneath her eyes despite flawless makeup. Enough to notice that every so often Emily’s expression drifted somewhere far away before she sharply pulled herself back together again.

At one point during dinner preparations he leaned casually beside her while she reviewed seating confirmations.

“You know,” he said mildly, “most people rebound in Rome. They don’t look like widowed aristocrats wandering through war zones.”

Emily kept reading. “I’m not rebounding because there was nothing to rebound from.”

“Mm.”

“There wasn’t.”

Nigel sipped his wine calmly. “And yet here you are staring at risotto like it personally betrayed you.”

Emily glared at him. Nigel only smiled faintly and wandered off again before Miranda could demand another human sacrifice. Infuriating man.

Still, by evening, exhaustion and work and sheer logistical violence had dulled the ache inside Emily’s chest enough to make breathing feel manageable again.

Which felt survivable.

-

Dinner ended late.

The Roman night outside glowed soft and gold beneath hanging streetlights while narrow streets hummed gently with music and distant conversation.

Miranda had finally retired upstairs after declaring the evening “adequate,” which in Miranda language qualified as overwhelming praise. Nigel disappeared toward some late-night bar with designers.

And for the first time all day, Emily found herself alone.

The hotel wasn’t far. So despite aching feet and exhaustion dragging heavily through her bones, she decided to walk.

Cold evening air curled softly against her skin while Rome shimmered around her impossibly beautiful beneath the dark. Restaurants spilled warm amber light across cobblestones. Couples wandered arm-in-arm past fountains and little cafés still alive with laughter.

Emily kept her coat wrapped tightly around herself and walked quickly.

Operation Forget Andrea Sachs remained active. Mostly.

Until she turned one corner too many and saw the fountain.

Fontana dell’Amore. The Fountain of Love. Of course Rome had one. Naturally.

The fountain sat glowing beneath soft golden light in a tiny open piazza surrounded by ivy-covered buildings and couples behaving exactly as couples in Rome apparently believed themselves legally required to behave.

Kissing. Laughing softly. Holding each other like the entire world had narrowed down into warmth and closeness and certainty.

One couple stood near the water tossing coins over their shoulders together while another kissed openly against the marble edge of the fountain beneath drifting moonlight.

Emily stopped walking. And suddenly, violently, the ache returned. She felt it immediately.  Like every exhausting emotion she’d spent all day outrunning finally caught her at once beneath the Roman night.

Because God, she was tired. Tired of pretending this didn’t hurt. Tired of missing Andrea constantly. Tired of carrying around jealousy and confusion and longing without anywhere safe to put any of it.

Maybe it was the prosecco from dinner lingering warm in her bloodstream. Maybe it was Rome itself with all its unbearable romance. Maybe she was simply too emotionally exhausted to keep holding herself together properly anymore.

Whatever the reason, Emily found herself drifting toward the edge of the fountain almost without thinking. Then sitting.

The marble felt cold beneath her coat.

Water shimmered softly nearby while tourists moved around her in blurred happy shapes speaking rapid Italian and French and English all at once.

Emily stared down at her phone in her hands. For one long terrible moment she simply looked at Andrea’s name.

Then pressed call.

The ringing barely lasted two seconds.

“Emily?”

Andrea answered immediately. Warm. Breathless. Instantly concerned.

And somehow that destroyed the last fragile piece of composure Emily had left.

A broken sound escaped her throat before she could stop it. Then suddenly she was crying. Not graceful tears this time. Not silent heartbreak hidden behind vodka glasses. Actual full on sobbing. Right there beside a fountain in the middle of Rome while tourists openly stared.

Emily pressed one hand hard over her mouth uselessly as tears spilled hot down her face anyway.

“Emily?” Andrea’s voice sharpened instantly with alarm. “Em, what happened?”

Emily tried to speak. Nothing coherent emerged. Another sob broke out instead, humiliating and shaky beneath the noise of the fountain.

Nearby, an older tourist couple glanced toward her with visible concern.

Emily physically turned away from them, shoulders curling inward while she cried harder into the phone.

“Hey, hey,” Andrea said quickly, voice low and steady now. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Emily shook her head even though Andrea couldn’t see it.

Everything hurt. The distance. The silence. The jealousy. Missing her. Wanting her. All of it.

“I—” Emily tried again brokenly. “I can’t—” Her voice cracked apart completely.

Andrea sounded genuinely panicked now. “Emily, where are you?”

Rome, Emily almost said. Instead another helpless sob tore loose from her chest.

“Oh my God,” Andrea whispered softly through the phone, sounding wrecked herself now. “Baby, please talk to me.”

Baby.

The word hit Emily so hard she cried harder.

A few tourists nearby were openly pretending not to stare now with the exaggerated politeness people reserved for public emotional collapses.

Emily hated every second of this. And yet she couldn’t stop.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Andrea was saying quickly now, voice full of helpless concern. “But whatever it is, we’ll figure it out, okay? Just breathe for me first.”

Emily squeezed her eyes shut hard. 

Water rushed softly beside her. Couples laughed nearby. Rome glowed warm and romantic and cruel around her.

And finally, finally, Emily managed to choke out, “I thought—”

The line crackled violently.

Then silence.

Emily blinked. “…Andrea?”

Nothing.

Her screen flashed: SIGNAL LOST.

Emily stared at the phone in horror. “No.”

The call disconnected completely.

For one suspended second she simply sat there breathing unevenly beneath the Roman night while tears still slid down her face and the fountain continued burbling mockingly beside her.

Then frustration exploded through her all at once. “Oh, fuck OFF.”

A nearby tourist physically startled.

Emily surged abruptly to her feet gripping the phone so tightly she genuinely considered throwing it directly into the fountain. Really considered it. The stupid useless device practically vibrated with emotional betrayal in her hand.

Her arm even moved slightly.

Then reality intervened. Miranda. Work. International contacts. Flight confirmations.

Emily lowered the phone slowly with visible fury. “…Coward,” she informed herself bitterly.

The fountain sparkled innocently nearby.

Emily wiped viciously beneath her eyes with the sleeve of her coat before anyone could pity her further.

Then, exhausted beyond reason and still heartbreakingly unfinished somehow, Emily Charlton turned sharply away from the Fountain of Love and dragged herself back toward the hotel alone beneath the Roman night.

-

By the time Emily finally reached the hotel again, the city had gone quieter.

Scooters hummed distantly somewhere beyond narrow streets. Laughter drifted faintly upward from a late-night restaurant below. The city glowed gold and amber outside the towering hotel windows while ancient rooftops stretched endlessly beneath the dark.

Emily stepped into her suite exhausted clear through to the marrow. Her makeup was ruined. Her head hurt. And she had just suffered a complete emotional collapse beside something literally called the Fountain of Love like the doomed female lead in an aggressively unsubtle romance film. Fantastic.

The door clicked shut behind her.

For several long seconds she simply stood there motionless in the dim hotel room, coat still on, phone hanging uselessly from one hand.

Then slowly, almost disbelievingly, Emily let out one short, broken laugh. Because honestly? Fuck everything.

She had crossed an entire ocean trying to forget Andrea Sachs. And instead, Andrea appeared in museums. Andrea appeared in cafés. Andrea appeared in every beautiful thing Emily wanted to point at instinctively and share with someone.

And worst of all, the one moment Emily finally cracked open enough to maybe say something real, something honest, something vulnerable and terrifying and true, the universe itself apparently intervened personally. Signal lost. 

Of course. Naturally. Why wouldn’t the cosmos itself participate in humiliating Emily Charlton emotionally?

Emily dropped her phone onto the hotel bed with exhausted irritation before moving toward the windows overlooking Rome.

The city shimmered below her impossibly beautiful beneath the midnight sky. Domes. Rooftops. Golden lights reflected softly against dark stone streets still carrying traces of rain.

Somewhere out there couples still kissed beside fountains while Emily stood alone in a luxury hotel suite emotionally unraveling over a journalist from Manhattan with terrible timing and warm eyes.

Her throat tightened again. She was so fucking tried. The deep heavy ache of wanting someone too much while having absolutely no idea what to do about it.

Because now what? She could call Andrea again tomorrow. Explain everything. Admit the jealousy. Admit the hurt. Admit that Emily Charlton, terrifyingly, humiliatingly, had fallen in love hard enough to break her own heart over assumptions and flowers and one almost-kiss seen through restaurant glass.

The thought made panic twist immediately beneath her ribs. No. Absolutely not.

And yet losing the call tonight hurt worse than she expected because for one tiny reckless moment beside that fountain, crying into the dark with Andrea’s voice in her ear, Emily had almost done it. Almost told her. Almost let herself be known completely.

And then Rome swallowed the signal whole before she could.

Emily pressed tired fingers briefly against her eyes. Maybe the universe really did hate her. Or maybe this was simply what happened when someone spent years constructing herself carefully around control and sharpness and distance, only to fall disastrously in love with someone capable of undoing all of it accidentally just by being kind.

Outside, Rome glowed endlessly onward beneath the night. Inside the suite, Emily stood alone watching the city while her thoughts circled helplessly back toward Andrea again. Andrea answering immediately. Andrea sounding terrified when she cried. Baby, please talk to me.

God. Emily closed her eyes.

Operation Forget Andrea Sachs had now officially failed beyond recovery. Catastrophically. Spectacularly. Internationally.

And somewhere deep down, beneath all the heartbreak and confusion and stubborn fear still lodged painfully inside her chest, Emily already knew the worst part. 

She didn’t actually want to forget Andrea Sachs. Not at all.